1. Keats

1

KEATS

I 'm tempted.

By the situation.

The package, I mean.

I want to take the knife in my hand and destroy yet another box that arrived at my house because either the delivery man hasn't learned from his mistakes yet or there is simply someone incapable of doing their job writing the correct address on a package. This should have arrived to my pain-in-the-ass neighbor. This must be the third box in a week.

Every. Single. Time. I must come face to face with my nemesis.

For unexplainable reasons, it was hate at first sight with the woman who has a permanent scowl when she crosses my path. The woman who has a perfect curve to her shoulder with smooth skin, because Esme wants to be a little temptress and wear off-the-shoulder t-shirts. Sometimes her dirty blonde hair is down or other times up in a messy bun that would still be suitable for my hand to yank her head back to shut her up with my tongue down her throat. Even better, my cock.

Alas, her not-so-stellar personality prevents me from crossing any lines.

Fine.

Today, I will not stab a sharp object into this box with a return address from someplace in Washington state. A far place from here in Everhope, Illinois. I live far enough from Chicago and close enough to my sister and my work for the hockey team, the Spinners, in Lake Spark.

I deal enough with arrogant and cocky people in the hockey industry. Luckily, my cutthroat approach to all legal matters as the team's legal counsel keeps me from throwing a chair at anyone.

Everhope doesn't have a lake; we have a serene river surrounded by green trees to escape for a little calm.

The calm only lasts so long. Because every time I turn onto Everhope Road—since whoever named these streets had zero creativity—I lose my peace, and I haven't even lived here for a year.

My phone vibrating on the counter causes me to abandon the knife.

I see it's my buddy, Oliver. He also works with me, which begs the question, "Business or personal?" I ask because we work together on the legal team.

"Geez, what a welcome greeting, Keats." I can hear the humor in his voice.

My brows rise as I shake off my thoughts. "Sorry." I take one deep breath. "How are you doing today? The birds singing? Coffee still good at Foxy Rox?" My feigned chipper tone causes him to laugh.

"Damn, what's gotten into you? And fine, yes, and yes."

"Okay. It's Saturday, what is up? "

"Well, I'm calling on a personal note."

My forehead creases. "Not working hard enough?" Normally, Saturdays turn into a workday.

"Nah, I'll look at the contracts later. Just wanted to check if you want to head to the gym or go for a run? May weather is treating us well."

Drawing a line from the unopened box out the living room window, I notice the dreaded car of doom approaching. "Not today. I need to be graced with Esme's presence due to yet another mail mishap."

Oliver chuckles under his breath. "If I hear about a murder on the news then I am not your alibi. But after your argument that the neighbors will watch for entertainment, we can still meet up. Maybe throw some burgers on the grill." Oliver lives down the street which means it's a quick walk.

Dragging my eyes away from the window, I begin to saunter toward the door, tucking the box under my arm. "I really can't. I need to shop online and find a few gifts my nephew." That soft spot in my heart that does exist, warms with fondness. My little sister Summer and I are close. She's been through a lot, and I'm brother bear. Even if that means accepting the new man in her life, Nash, the brother of her late husband who passed last year. But my nephew, Bo? That little one-year-old guy steals the show.

"Fine. But I'll probably call later for business," Oliver says.

"Later." I end the call and set my cell on the side table by the front door.

Deep breath. It's about to begin.

Swinging the door open, I begin to charge my way to my not-so-lovely next-door neighbor's driveway. Esme is halfway to standing with her car door open when she notices me, and the eye roll must be instinctual .

"What now?" Dread floods her voice. She pushes her door shut with disgruntled energy. I'm more gentle with my car, but to each to their own.

Holding up the box, my unimpressed facial expression should already explain it all to her. "When the fuck will this stop, Miss Pines?" And when will you stop wearing jeans that mold to your body, with your hair framing your face with those whispering gray eyes?

Her hands find her hips. "Well, when will you be a normal welcoming neighbor, Mr. Roth?" She moved in a few months ago, taking the house from her aunt Margerie who left her the place in her will.

My eyes bug out. "Says the woman who gave everyone on the street a cherry pie except me."

She snickers. "You don't deserve one. Besides, I forgot that you live here. Just assumed it's your holiday house. Don't you normally reside by the gates of Hell?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand. "Oh, because you are such an angel, making the dirtiest choice of desserts. Pie. Really?" I scoff. "Following the cliché pin-up girl vibe?"

She points her finger at me with a glare to accompany it. "Who the fuck brings a sexual reference to baking a pie? Oh… oh yeah, the neighbor who can take his fine suits and his noisy car to another street. Shall I arrange the for-sale sign for your yard?"

I stand taller to correct her. "It's a Ferrari, so yeah, I'm going to rev the engine."

"Is that what you say to women when you are about to deliver your 30 second performance?" she asks dryly.

We both step closer, the tension boiling as it always does in one another's presence .

"Actually, the clock doesn't have enough numbers to time me. Would you like references?"

"Ugh, you are piece of work," she grumbles.

In the corner of my eye, I notice old lady Mrs. Tiller staring at us from next door to Esme's house, pretending to garden. And Kelly from across the street? I just learned to ignore that she's always watching us and standing by her garage still holding the leash to her Labrador. The dog just sits there with his ears perked, staring at us. Oh hell, did her husband just come out to enjoy his cup of coffee and watch the scene?

Doesn't matter. I shove the box to Esme, and she snatches it out of my arms.

"Fix this mail situation," I grind out.

Her eyes grow big. "Not my fault the mail system could use improvements. I bet you don't even give the mailman holiday cards."

Shaking my head, I'm now in agony. We can only go in circles for so long.

"What is even in these envelopes and boxes?"

Esme's head lolls to the side. "Things for work. Some of us actually have a happy job. Bringing joy to others instead of spitting out boring legal terms, or even worse, defending douchebag hockey players who get caught cheating, with photos online to prove it."

I step even closer at that reminder. We still haven't found the culprit of leaking the photo, nor do we care, as you can't destroy facts. Still, it was a PR nightmare, and to be honest, dealing with the player's shitty behavior was not my happiest day, but in truth, it was a career win on many fronts considering I got to bill extra hours. "Really? Low blows?"

"Fine… the packages are lenses for my camera or hardware for my laptop. Photographers need these things. Other ti mes, the boxes are just heavy blunt objects in case I need to murder you. I'm stocking up." Pure attitude is written all over her face.

I sigh, exhausted. "Well, you can save your money on the handcuffs. You can borrow mine." As soon as that flies out of my mouth, she inhales a sharp breath. We pause and both seem to ponder something, and we probably shouldn't share what.

Her tongue swipes along her teeth, and she pretends to look down at the address on the box. "Aren't you the gentleman," she says softly, sarcastic.

Rubbing my face in my hands, I debate if we should end this Saturday quarrel yet. But I get my kicks out of making her day miserable.

"I'm serious. Fix this address situation." Or don't.

Her shoulders rise. "I have. Well… at least the address part. I double-check and recheck when I enter my details. Maybe the automatic system thing when you enter a zip code changes it on their end."

I throw her a pointed look. "Yet, everything is fine on my end. Are you receiving my mail?" My finger lands on my chin to contemplate. "No," I sharply inform her.

Esme growls again. "That's not true and you know it. I got one of your envelopes the other week. Anyhow, I would say sorry, but you're incapable of feelings and manners."

One more step. This time from her end. Bringing us dangerously too close, my cologne and her light flowery perfume mixing.

"Hmm. Funny that." I glance to my side. "Kelly, didn't I bring the best of the best Blisswood wine to your holiday party and treats for your dog, all while giving you a genuine smile?" I call out .

"Uh… yeah?" she answers, hesitant to enter the conversation.

I whip my eyes back to Esme. "See? I did that because I have manners."

Esme tucks the small box under her arms and brings her hands up for a slow clap. "Bravo. One little thing."

"All good? Assuming this is our regular Saturday showdown on the lawn." We both turn our heads to look at Sheriff Carter jogging in place. He's Oliver's brother and moved a while back from Lake Spark a few towns over.

"Arrest him for being a menace to society." Esme gives him a pointed look.

"No can do, Esme. I'm off-duty and value my work-life balance." He flashes her a smile full of teeth.

Esme growls like a child as Carter continues his run.

"So, when people enter your house, do you just cast a spell on them to treat you like the greatest gift on earth?" I've heard the rumors of her offering tea and chats, not to mention people are always going in and out of her house. I'm not even sure what's in there except a kitchen where she bakes pies that I've never tasted.

She purses her lips, not pleased. "I have a studio for photoshoots, you despicable creature. I believe I've explained that before."

"Maybe. I didn't take an interest."

Esme's head tilts just enough to dare me. Lucky for her, we have an audience, so I can't eye-fuck her to my normal standards.

"Do you know what kind of photography I do?"

"Don't particularly care."

Her lips curl into a smirk that is borderline sultry. "Engagement photos when outside, but inside…" She clicks her tongue. "Boudoir photos. Classy yet effective gifts for wo men's significant others or for themselves to build confidence. Do you know what boudoir photos are?"

Internally, I groan and attempt to keep it together as the term rings a bell… or I just abused the search engine bar on my laptop once and came to the conclusion that it's classy porn. I don't answer, and that just seems to thrill her more.

"It's when you either wear lingerie or next to nothing. Heels optional."

My entire body tightens, holding on for dear life. She's taunting me, and that seems to delight her. Such a demon.

Unaffected. Act unaffected and send that message to my dick stat.

"Classy," I retort.

One moment. Two moments. We both say nothing, but our eyes lock.

"Next time I throw the package away," I whisper.

"Then you really are the neighbor from Hell."

We both step back, and she begins to walk briskly away.

"Have a lovely day," I mention with a contrite smile.

My body finally relaxes, and when I turn to return to my house, I notice eyes from neighbors quickly finding the ground. Great. We'll be the talk of the next neighborhood association meeting.

The moment, I'm in my house with the door closed, I mosey my way to the kitchen to peruse the fridge.

How the fuck is this situation sustainable for my sanity?

I guess I'll bury myself in some work this afternoon. Maybe call an old fuck buddy to work out my frustration, but for some indescribable reason, that doesn't seem appealing. My neighbor is indeed the worst human on earth since she ruined my ability to fuck someone senseless.

I do not appreciate her getting under my skin. I'm a lawyer, after all .

It's 11:56 on the oven clock. Fuck it. I pull out a bottle of Matchbox IPA, a brew from Sage Creek, from the middle shelf then close the fridge. Popping the cap off with the nearby opener, I take a deep swallow; the taste of alcohol is soothing.

A few minutes later, I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, stationed behind my laptop on the coffee table and am not surprised with my full email inbox or the fact that Scotty Smith is getting traded due to the PR nightmare. I don't condone cheating, so I have no problem whipping through the needed legal papers to get him on a plane out of here for a player trade.

This is how my weekends go. Gym, beer, work, and to make it riveting, add in arguments with my neighbor for my breaks from my laptop.

Sitting up and straightening my spine, I comb my fingers through my hair. For some peculiar reason my lips quirk out, and I tap my finger loudly on the table.

And fuck my mind for betraying me and for a millisecond imagining my neighbor splayed out on it.

Because I absolutely, completely, utterly can't stand that woman.